BARBARA NIEBECK stirred the simmering pot in which a chicken carcass bobbed and slowly disintegrated. It was late afternoon. Mr. H. was home from work early, pacing the kitchen floor in a way that set her nerves on edge.
"This morning I saw your daughter," he said.
It took her a few seconds to digest those words. She held the wooden spoon aloft. Droplets of chicken broth dripped down the handle, glazing her rough red fingers.
"She was coming down Elm Street," he began, his voice shaky. "With that woman's baby. She ... she looked at me," he said, giving Barbara an agonized stare before turning abruptly away. "She knows everything."
You idiot, Barbara thought. Of course she knows. "Afraid she'll talk?" she asked him tartly. "Well, she won't. That wouldn't be like her."
His anxious pacing made her want to fly at him with the wooden spoon. But she forced herself to remain rigid and cool. She made herself imagine a snow-covered field. In the steamy kitchen, she invoked the dry chill of deep winter. She clung to that notion of cold reserve while he studied the calendar on the wall. She saw his finger rise to trace the date of August 27, circled in red ink, when his daughters were due back from camp—only three weeks away. When he faced her again, she read in his eyes what was coming. He had his daughters to think of, their reputation. His daughters' return from summer camp would signal the end of their affair if not her outright dismissal. He would probably give her an envelope of money and send her on her way.
"You shouldn't have left the factory so early," she said frostily. "Someone might notice you're not keeping regular hours."
"Barbara, don't be like that."
"What way do you want me to be?" She stirred her broth, then tossed in a pinch of salt. The essence of that dead bird filled the kitchen. Curls of steam fanned upward, dampening her face and darkening her cheeks.
Standing only inches away from her, he was poised to speak, his mouth curving into an O. Then he must have thought better of it. Whatever he had intended to say, he kept to himself. Barbara closed her eyes as he walked noiselessly out the door. His voice echoed inside her. I saw your daughter. She knows everything.
Left alone in the kitchen beside that simmering carcass, she shuddered as sobs ripped through her. So Penny had been in town. Mr. H. had seen her, but she hadn't. Her daughter was avoiding her. She had discarded her as thoroughly as Mr. H. soon would. Each time Barbara went to the grocery store, Mr. Renfew asked her how Penny was doing. And each time she invented some pleasant-sounding lie to tell. "Oh, I had a long chat with her the other Sunday. She's awfully devoted to that baby. I guess it's good practice for when she has one of her own."
Once Penny had been small enough to swing in her arms. When she was little, Penny used to light up like a Christmas tree when Barbara finished her shift at the Commercial Hotel and went to get her from old Mrs. Novak at the end of the day. Once she had thought that child loved her more than anyone else ever could. She remembered when four-year-old Penny solemnly informed the other hotel maids that her mama was the prettiest lady in the world. Now twenty-one miles away from her, Penny was a boat drifting farther and farther downstream. One day she would slip away completely. As Barbara wept over the pot of chicken broth, the knowledge of her daughter's desertion hit her like a brutal blow. She had lost her. Penny would not be coming back.